


Rainbow

by Doomsteady



Series: Spotlights [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Best Friends, Bisexual John, Exhibitionism, Fluff, John can't help himself, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neurosis, Pre-Slash, Public Masturbation, Sherlock protects those who are different, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doomsteady/pseuds/Doomsteady
Summary: John is a public masturbator. He can't help it. He knows it's wrong, but that's part of the temptation. It feels too good, getting off while people can see him.Sherlock is his best friend. He accepts John's unusual trait and goes above and beyond to help him stay comfortable around people. If that means hiding him within the flaps of his Belstaff and letting John relieve his urge in the middle of a Pride parade, then so be it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 12th Nov: Hello! Since this was one of the first things I'd written in _many_ years, it was kind of crap before. So I've re-edited it. This newer version is 150% less stilted and awkward. Enjoy! :)

The fixation began in his teen years, during that ungraceful transition from boyhood to manhood when surging levels of testosterone in John’s body shot up his height by three inches in six months, and dropped his tenor voice by a full octave. And, like most boys his age, there would be occasions when his body would rebel at the most embarrassing of times. Unable to control itself amidst the flood of new hormones, random, spontaneous erections were a constant threat— and a reminder to always wear loosely-fitting underwear.

But like most boys his age, he’d sometimes forget to heed this warning, and there came a day that would alter his perceptions of himself forever.

John was fifteen, at school attending an English lesson. The teacher called him to the front of the room to recite his essay in front of the class, and his traitorous body had chosen that exact moment to present an insistent and painfully obvious erection. The hard bulge showed clearly through the material of his school uniform trousers. What could he do? He couldn’t raise his hand and say, “Sorry Mrs Raithwait, I can’t do it. I’ve just popped a massive boner in my pants.” Not in front of a class of twenty peers, friends and enemies alike. He’d be mocked for it for the rest of his school career.

But the alternative was worse; if he didn’t stand and deliver his reading, the teacher was going to fail him. John was a good student, and the only thing he feared more than the embarrassment was presenting his alcoholic parents with a bad grade.

So when his teacher had gotten annoyed by his hesitance and ordered him up front, like a doomed soldier at the Battle of the Somme he had marched in front of his peers and delivered his reading. Everyone had gotten an eyeful of him that day. It was a humiliating experience. All the kids had sniggered and laughed at him for the rest of the school year, and Mrs Raithwait had just let it happen. The snooty cow.

Years later, John still hadn’t forgotten the experience. And maybe it became some sort of coping mechanism — a way for his brain to protect itself from the shame, take some control over the experience — but being hard in public had gradually warped into something of a thrill that he began to seek out, rather than avoid. He remembered the way it had made him feel, standing flushed and erect in front of so many people. Utterly powerless and vulnerable.

It was a horrible, painful memory. All he could do was try to relive it, again and again, in an attempt to alter its meaning into something he chose. Something he wanted.

And by the time he’d met Sherlock Holmes and was sharing a flat with the brilliant detective, it was a full blown neurosis in his life. The need to touch himself in public had become an almost irresistible temptation, part of his sexual identity. It was as much ‘John’ as anything else, as much as his warm jumpers and his steaming cups of tea, his heavy Sig handgun and the starburst scar on his shoulder.

Sherlock had known this, and everything else about him instantly. Because of course he did— he’s Sherlock Holmes. And he’d accepted it, recognising it as something John simply couldn’t help about himself. It wasn’t a perversion; something more along the lines of a nervous habit, or a tic. John explained to him that while the company of family, friends, or even just people that knew him (but didn’t necessarily know of his unusual proclivity) was a horribly tempting environment, bordering on mental torture, there was also a singular thrill for him in the company of strangers, too.

The best way he could describe it was thus: The worse an onlooker would think of him inappropriately touching himself in their presence, the more he got off on it.

He hated it, wished that he could turn it off. But the more he fought his urges, the worse they’d seemed to get. Life for John had become increasingly difficult once he reached adulthood, found his independence, and was required to move about in public without a parent or sibling on his arm. And so, reluctantly, he’d become a public masturbator. Despite a few close calls, by the grace of God he’d somehow never been arrested for public indecency. But it was a difficult life. He felt so alone, so ashamed of himself. That is, until he met Sherlock.

Sherlock had taken to accompanying John out on public errands such as the weekly shop at Tesco, despite personally hating the chore, in order to keep him out of trouble. It was an unusually kindly gesture from the usually reticent sociopath. At first, John just assumed he’d become an interesting study subject, a fascinating new experiment for Sherlock to explore and observe and pick apart. But it wasn’t like that— Sherlock was actually being nice. He _cared_ about John. And the longer they knew each other, the more obvious it became. Not only to John, but to everyone they knew.

John was infinitely grateful to have someone not only accept this odd trait of his, but to help him through ordinary day-to-day activities. It was truly a Godsend. He had no idea how he would cope without his friend’s non-judgemental support. And rather than offering distractions or urging him to stop, as any well-meaning therapist he’d avoided discussing it with might suggest, Sherlock had surprised John by proposing a rather unorthodox solution to his problem.

The first occasion had been during a pride march in central London that the pair were attending as part of an investigation. By the time they’d arrived on the scene, their target had vanished into the crowds without a trace, leaving them surrounded by the cheering masses and their brightly coloured flags and signs. They’d searched up and down the streets for an hour before reluctantly giving up.

Disappointed, and with the thrill of the chase fizzling out into such an anti-climax, John had felt the stirrings of a need to touch himself. They were standing in the midst of so many happy, jovial strangers, and once his mind hooked onto the idea it wouldn’t let go. There was only two ways this could end up.

“We should go home,” he suggested, and gave Sherlock a look that communicated the rest of his meaning. His friend knew it well. They were about to leave when a group approached them, singing as they hung multi-coloured lanyards around their necks and pecking their cheeks with friendly kisses.

“Boyfriends?” One of them asked, beaming a broad smile. And even as John began apologetically correcting their assumption, Sherlock wrapped a gentle arm around John’s waist and pulled him close.

“Aren’t I the lucky one?” he winked at them. They laughed, and Sherlock mirrored the gesture with such skillful acting that John had to seriously question whether or not it was real. After wishing them an awesome day, the group rejoined the march, leaving John and Sherlock to their own company, and John to his bemusement.

“What was all that?”

Sherlock’s arm slipped away from him. “Would you rather explain why we’re _actually_ here, chasing a murderer through the streets? Would rather spoil the mood, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so…” said John, who by now was beginning to fidget uncomfortably. Their well-meaning attentions hadn’t helped at all; he was hard and desperate to press a hand between his legs. His fingers played at a belt loop in his jeans.

People were smiling and laughing all around them, and nobody was shy about displaying affection. He caught the wandering eyes of someone almost anywhere he looked, and his mind was stuck on the idea of how they’d react if he just started rubbing himself right there in the middle of the street. He imagined their eyes falling to his crotch, their friendly expression melting into one of shock, perhaps even revulsion, and the imagery caused a spark of fresh heat in his abdomen.

It was becoming too much to resist. But even as his hand moved of its own accord to paw at his groin, Sherlock whirled in front of him, his coat billowing to surround them both. With firm hands on his shoulders, Sherlock pushed John back against the wall of a building, pressing in close to him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” John stammered, finding his hand suddenly trapped between them. Despite this, he was still fumbling to pull down his fly, even with his friend enclosing him with his body. He had no control over it.

“Protecting you,” Sherlock whispered, and rested his forehead on John’s in an outward display of intimacy. “Go ahead. Anybody who looks will just assume we’re partners, embraced in a kiss. Do what you need to do.”

“But I…” John looked at him timidly. “I mean, are you sure this won't be weird for you?”

Sherlock’s eyes softened, his mouth quirked into a patient smile. “It’s alright, I promise. Get it out of your system.”

It was weird; they were just friends. John had never done this in front of him— not deliberately, anyway. Not with his permission. And certainly not pressed right up against him like this. But he had to admit, there was an appeal to it. Sherlock was urging him on, but they weren’t lovers, they weren’t intimate— and yet John would he wanking himself off right in front of him. And if Sherlock was okay with that, how could be refuse?

So he did it— John slipped his hand down the front of his trousers to touch the hard length of himself, in front of his best friend, while standing in broad daylight on Regent Street amidst hundreds of people. And it was incredible. Dangerous. So wrong, but it felt so good.

John watched over his shoulder at all the people marching by. Occasionally someone would glance over and meet his eyes, and a coy smile would light up their face at the sight of two people sharing a moment of tenderness and love. It made John’s breath hitch in his throat, a burst of pleasure flaring hot in his steadily leaking cock; _they think we’re kissing. They have no idea I’m fucking my own hand right now._

He looked back at Sherlock. His friend’s breath was warm and steady against his lips, his eyes closed, perhaps thinking he should give John a modicum of privacy. But privacy isn’t what he needed right now. He needed to feel exposed, vulnerable. Sherlock was a shield around him that blocked the view of him from the crowds, and it was necessary, but John couldn’t bring himself off fully like this. He felt the stirrings of his orgasm drawing close, but couldn’t tip himself over the edge.

He hesitated, not wanting to make this more awkward for his friend, but imagining how amazing it would feel to have him stare deeply into John’s eyes as he comes. So far, Sherlock didn’t seem to mind what was going on. After all, this had been his suggestion. But would it be asking too much of him to actively share in that moment? Was it crossing some sort of line, make it too blatant that he would be the reason John ultimately came apart?

John’s breathing had become irregular, his pace increasing. He felt hot, and tense, and ready. His fist pumped over the head of his cock, making it twitch, making his legs shake. And he had no other choice— he had to ask.

“Would… Would you look at me, when I…”

Sherlock opened his eyes then, and fixed John with the kind of intense, penetrating look that he usually reserved for crime scenes, and it was clear he understood exactly what John needed. John felt him reaching in and exploring everything, stripping him bare; a spotlight shining across the landscape of his inner self, unapologetic, unreserved. The sudden vulnerable exposure was so shocking that it sent him flying over the edge with a choked gasp.

John came hard in his jeans, over his own hand, curling into Sherlock as his cock pulsed rapidly and spurted several wet streams of cum into his underwear. Sherlock huddled around him, glancing sideways to ensure nobody was being overly intrusive to their activity, while John shuddered through it, his breathing heavy and ragged. As his body gradually relaxed, all John could do was lean into him, spent and slightly breathless, until he recovered his strength.

After wiping his hand as best he could inside his boxers and zipping himself back up, he indicated that he was ready, and Sherlock stepped back from him, drawing his coat closed. The loss of his body heat made John shiver slightly in the breezy air.

“Feel better?” Sherlock asked, with an expression of genuine affection on his face that John had only ever seen directed at him. It made him feel warm inside.

“Much. That was… Thank you. Thanks, Sherlock. I really mean it. You didn’t have to do that for me.”

They turn and begin at a leisurely pace back towards Baker Street. “Anytime you need it, John.”

And so that was how it all started. Sherlock had always said that he felt a soft spot for people who were different, like him. But never would John have imagined he’d go to such lengths to make him feel comfortable in public. It probably wasn’t the _healthiest_ way to manage a neurosis, he had to admit— making no effort to dissuade the habit (quite the opposite in fact), but Sherlock was only trying to help. He was nothing if not efficient and pragmatic, in this and all things, and John appreciated it more than words could describe.

Everybody always said that Sherlock was an arsehole; socially inept, incapable of sentiment. What they didn’t know is that he simply reserved those feelings for the few people he truly considered important to him, and John was lucky enough to be counted among them. They were both mature and comfortable enough in themselves that this odd arrangement seemed to work, and after that first time, John felt much better about going out to places, so long as Sherlock was there with him, keeping him safe.


End file.
